When Sphinxes Speak
by Abby Ebon
Summary: With L'autre Monde. Egypt is famous for its magic – and its curses – so, there a very good reason why, when in Egypt, you don’t go looking for the temple between the Sphinx’s paws. Harry Potter is about to learn this the hard way. Mummy/Harry/SG-1 xover.
1. Step With Care Over Hourglass Sand

**When Sphinxes Speak**

Abby Ebon

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_Disclaimer_; I do not own the rights to "Harry Potter" or "The Mummy".

_Summary_; With _L'autre Monde_. **Slash**, Harry/Imhotep. Egypt is famous for its magic – and its curses – so, there a _very_ good reason why, when in Egypt, you don't go looking for the temple between the Sphinx's paws. Harry Potter is about to learn the hard way.

_Note_; if you've ever found yourself wondering who would be cruel enough to drop Harry into the rat nest of a Goa'uld infested Ancient Egypt while the soon to be cursed with the Hom-dai Imhotep is running amuck with Anck-su-namun behind Seti's back while Nefertiri watches on? I would proudly step forward, smirking. Yes, _cower_ in _fear_! ...or sing praises, my muses aren't picky.

Seriously now, this isn't just a story – it's an idea, an experiment, if you will. I've always wanted to combine written word with art, and thanks in large part to _L'autre Monde_, this may well become a reality. All the details haven't yet been hashed out – like where the images will be posted at, but you have my word that when they do appear you will be notified, and I will be posting the link on my profile. _L'autre Monde_ is a very talented artist – I've had the pleasure of seeing some of her rough work and find it lovely indeed, not to mention that I think our ideas of what this will become are enthusiastic, but realistic. I promise, if you only see this story from one side - you'll be missing out on something great. This is as much my story as it is hers, so keep this in mind, even as you read what are my words.

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_Step With Care Over Hourglass Sand_

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In the dim light of the half-full moon, they glittered like the summer grass of his Aunt's garden, he remembered it well for he had, every summer, until he was of age in the eyes of the magical world, worked slavishly to keep that yard healthy. Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed the "scar" shifting beneath his skin of his wrist, flickering, as if it had a life of its own.

Ron had compared this scar to a vine of thorns. Hermione had disagreed in favor of liking them to barbed wire. Personally, Harry thought they were a both right. The scar that circled his wrist had thorns like barbed wire, which – though the surface of his skin remained smooth, sprouted dark bruises beneath, but "blossomed" along the scar was an oddity. Engraved into his skin were clear cone-like jewels. Any other time they were black, but now – for some reason, they were the eerie green of his eyes.

Harry gave a precious moment to wish he had Hermione by his side to brain storm what this might mean, however insignificant it might prove to be. She might have claimed it to be a manifestation of his guilt at doing what he had done without informing anyone of his intentions. It was true enough that breaking into a "temple" in Egypt might send shivers up the spines of even the most bold – but what Harry was attempting to do was much worse in the eyes of many.

Harry had had a dream, a dream so real that if he closed his eyes and took a breath, he could see it all again as clearly as if he was dreaming once more. It was focused on the great sphinx, and ever since that dream, Harry had found himself unable to pull his attention away from going to Egypt and seeing for himself what held his attention.

In ancient hieroglyphs, rather whimsically mentioned, was a temple nestled either "beside" or "within" the Great Sphinx. Beyond that whisper the papyrus was unreadable, most thought the temple had been destroyed when the Sphinx had been buried up to its chest, over a thousand years after its making.

Harry didn't think so – _they_, the Egyptians - had built the pyramids, they had awed the Greeks, and even in the last stages of their kingdom, the Romans had good reason to fear them while a pharaoh queen sat upon the throne. Surely _they_ would have foreseen that sand storms might threaten their "Harmakhis", so rather then think the temple to be once placed between the forelegs of the Sphinx, Harry had wondered if the temple could be _within_ the Sphinx.

Having come all this way, Harry now stood before the empty eyed Sphinx with its broken face, and felt a rush of disappointment. He had thought perhaps being _here_ instead of studying at a _distance_ might shift his perspective, might let him see something tumble into place that would unlock the mysteries of the Sphinx and the riddle of its hidden temple. Might change something he hadn't seen by studying pages of notes. It hadn't.

Instead his feet hurt, his wrist was _glowing_ a freaky green color, and a desert night was still hotter then any kind of sun he'd ever felt. Shakily, he gave a sigh of defeat, and turned, preparing to go back to where he started without the hope he had had that this might be an answer.

"**I must say, I expected more from **_**my**_** descendent**." A rumbling voice froze Harry into place, the very air seemed to still – the night listening in to what had to be the savior of the magical world's witches and wizards going insane. Harry slowly opened and closed his eyes, the still desert night before him seemed to flicker replaced for a moment by a bustling crowd and words murmured too soft to hear.

'_I am asleep – dreaming. Don't turn around – keep going_…' His heart lurching within his chest, Harry sucked in a soft breath, intending to follow his own advice and take a step forward, just one step – and he was sure he'd wake up. Walking all this way – in the heat – _must_ have exhausted him. He might have passed out. Must have…he took that step. He didn't wake up. The desert was still bidding its time, awaiting his reaction with a weary sort of amusement.

"**Hear me, for what I will say this night will change everything you think you know. Your mother was no mere mortal; neither are you**." The words, softer now then a gentle breeze, might have fooled Harry as his own imagination if Harry hadn't known better. It was the smell that came with the words, the breath breathed along his scalp, ruffling his hair. The smell was alike a flower, spicy – but pleasant. When he smelt it, he thought of the warmth of the sun – and, strangely, his mother.

"**Face me**." It was a command, and Harry tightened his fingers into a fist as he slowly turned his face toward the sphinx, half seeing it out of the corner of his eye he saw it decayed and tarnished one moment – and in the next smooth and painted, as it must have appeared before the Greeks had visited. Pivoting, the sphinx looked the same – decayed, crumbling – but those unreadable eyes looked down upon him measuring all the same.

"What…who…are you?" As soon as he spoke, he knew it was the right sort of question to ask. Harry felt himself start to relax – it could be worse, true he couldn't think of _how_ it could be worse with a ancient monument speaking to him, but he knew that when it came to him it always could get…worse.

"**Harmakhis-Khepri-Atum-Ra**." His stomach did a flip at hearing the last set of the four names – Ra – the creator sun-god of ancient Egypt. He _knew_ Khepri and Atum were also significant, but couldn't place them – at that point he truly wished Hermione could have advised him at what to do. But he didn't need Hermione to tell him what "Harmakhis" was. It was an ancient word for the sphinx.

"**I seek to aide you**," Harmakhis spoke before Harry could, the brows lowered slightly, bringing Harry's attention the snake that adorned the band of its crown, "**in uncovering the secrets you seek.**" Stone lips quirked upward, seemingly pleased with his reaction.

'_The ancient Great Sphinx of Giza is speaking. I'm fairly certain Hermione or any other historian would do the happy dance to have this wealth of knowledge offered up, yet all I can think of - is what it can tell me that will help me_…' Harry thought, eyes flicking downward in his guilt at being so selfish.

"**You seek the temple. Enter.**" When Harry looked up, he found himself gazing at a shimmering door only steps away from where he stood. One moment it seemed not to be before him, and in the next moment it was so real he wondered if he was blind.

'_It…it's the temple_.' Harry inhaled in his surprise, taking in the sight before him; the temple walls were smooth as if freshly plastered, although strangely bare. Most ancient monuments were engraved with hieroglyphs as well as images of the ancient gods and goddesses – this temple that the head of the sphinx rested upon had neither.

Without having been aware of it, Harry had moved closer, the shimmering of the visible then invisible temple appeared alike water. Harry closed his eyes, breathed out slowly, and then took the last step forward. Stepping forward didn't feel any different, but when he opened his eyes – that was when he knew things had changed.

For though it had been dark outside, once he opened his eyes within the temple, it was bathed in lazy golden light. It reflected off the smooth walls, wavy like the surface of ocean water. The source was a large coffin, high enough to have to crawl atop of, engraved into it were hieroglyphs - though it had no engraved images – it did seemed to be designed to be admired.

'_Question is, then, why is it hidden away within this place_?' Harry thought, nibbling on his bottom lip, unable to help himself when he felt the impulse to draw near the sarcophagus. His fingers brushed the metallic surface, and he felt the hair along his arms rise in reaction, it was how he knew… there was energy _inside_.

Startling him, the scar along his wrist which had retained a "soft" steady thrum of green energy flared alarmingly. Two of the "jewels" embedded within the skin of his wrist were glowing now, as if in reaction to being near the sarcophagus and its energy.

Whatever had held the case of the sarcophagus closed gave way with a rush escaping air, it seemed to take on a life of its own and like a gush of wind swirled the sand about until Harry could not see. Spitting sand into the shirt he had raised above his nose, he kept his eyes tightly shut; hoping that hunching his shoulders was enough to keep the sand from his ears. He found himself on the ground and having crawled to the wall, listening as the wind and sand created a dull roar. He knew then and there that he never wanted to be anywhere near to a real sandstorm.

"**Be still**." A female voice whispered, though Harry hadn't thought it possible that he would overhear such a soft tone over the winds, he did. At first, he didn't know what she had meant, but as he squinted through the sand to see her, the whirlwind that had built itself up as a small tornado all at once ceased. All around him, sand fell to the ground until inches of it seemed intent on burying him.

When he saw the woman, it became obvious that she was not alone, Harry didn't know how to describe it, but she had the same sort of _presence_ as Harmakhis-Khepri-Atum-Ra. Though _how_ a woman who was lovely and slender, not to mention _shorter_ then he was could manage to be just as scary awe inspiring as the Great Sphinx, Harry did not even want to guess.

Her eyes were black as the night sky, with no pupil and no whites. Her skin was pale, as if she had never ventured into the light of day in all her years. She smiled at him, and he wasn't sure he was imagining it when he saw a glint of fang. Draped in a dark purple dress that fit snuggly enough to be called skin tight, she shouldn't have worried him – but she did.

The man who hovered behind her seemed clothed in the very darkness; it huddled about him like a bidding storm. Harry could not tell what his expression might be, for his head was shaped alike a donkeys though the pelt was black and shimmered like scales, two ears flicked in annoyance upon his head, and the foreword facing eyes blinked lazily, though Harry needed no one to tell him this man-creature had a temper. He, for it was clearly a male - with his proud male body covered in a loin cloth, he could be no other gender, but Harry knew though that this man-creature was a true predator.

The second man, Harry liked the look of more. His body was slender, and the muscles visible on his crossed arms and upon his chest, all the way down to his navel – though his groin was covered with a loincloth as well. His legs were well developed like a runner, and his feet sandaled. His head was that of a falcon, gazing at him in curiosity, with a tilted head, and seemingly amused expression. Harry could only read his expression so well because of his snowy white owl.

"**Do not be freighted, **_**boy**_** – we are here to help, not to **_**hurt**_." The dark man-creature murmured in a husky tone that sent shivers through Harry. For he knew that this predator would not care if he was sent to injure Harry or not, and would make that perfectly clear on their first impression.

"**Seth, beloved, it is not becoming to frighten one so young. Little one, I am Nephthys – and this other is the son of our sister and brother, Horus, out of Isis by Osiris**." The woman – Nephthys, lectured in soothing tones that reminded Harry of being lulled to sleep by some far off singing that he could never find the source of. Harry had known it hadn't been his Aunt, for she had retired to her bedroom long before he did, he thought now that he knew the source of it. He also knew he sat, crouched against the wall, in the presence of three Egyptian deities.

Horus, who was the only one who had not spoken, came forward to stand over Harry. He reached his hand down, and it took Harry a moment to realize the gesture had been made to help him to stand. He took it, the palm was warm, but Horus was strong for it only took a tug on the god's part to send Harry lurching to his feet. So he wouldn't fall, Horus held him smugly – Harry didn't need a mirror to know his face was flushed.

Perhaps a bit smugly, Horus chuckled as he righted Harry to stand on his own two feet.

"**Oh, do stop showing off for the boy – what would Hathor say?**" Seth grumbled softly, still standing beside Nephthys, with whom of the three was the only one Harry felt comfortable with. Harry looked to Seth, and noticed the shimmering bit of dark cloth in his hands – it was the invisibility cloak! Seth noticed his look, and seemed amused by the look of disgruntled anger Harry could not help but show.

"**Ah, I see the boy has gained back his wits. Yes, we have gifts you ought to be familiar with – though between our time and yours they had become less then what they were. Firstly, the one you are most familiar with, the Shroud of Seth – or, as you know it the Cloak of Invisibility. Passed from father to child since ancient times, yours once more renewed to the sum of what it once was**." With his words, Seth threw the bundle of shimmering dark cloth to Harry, seemingly amused when Harry reached out to catch it only to have the 'gift' wrap itself smugly around Harry's shoulders, almost as if it held a spirit of its own.

"**I'll be going now – with one last warning, Harry, if you say my name beneath my shroud it will summon me – use that only as a last resort**." Seth's black eyes flared white, and the shadows surrounding him seemed to swallow him up. He was gone before Harry could blink, and he made a mental note to _never_ say Seth's name, most especially not beneath his shroud – it seemed vaguely perverse, that, and the god of destruction and shadows was just creepy.

"**You know our gifts by the title 'Deathly Hallows', but they are more then that – and you will learn how much more as you walk the path we have set before you**." Nephthys told him as she moved her wrist – Harry noticed then what he had not noticed before, that wrapped around her hand and wrist was a metallic "glove". It covered the tips of her fingers and thumb in metal caps that twisted about her fingers to join in her palm, where a black stone lay, the metal continued from there wrapping about her wrist like a ribbon.

"**There is no greater example of how these 'Deathly Hallows' have changed then my own gift, the Ribbon of Nephthys – or, as you know it, the Stone of Resurrection. Over time, the black stone was removed from this, and set into a ring, becoming less then what it was. Place this over your scarred wrist and no one will see it – or the scar - for what it is, but for those who can fight its influence**. **When you use it, you will sense my presence within you, fear not – I seek only to aide you on your path**." Nephthys told him in whispery tones that seemed to sing to him, she had came closer and as she spoke she had taken her gift off and was putting it onto Harry's hand, he was surprised to see that despite the difference in their hands, the 'ribbon' fit smoothly over his skin.

Nephthys kissed his cheek and he saw in her eyes a flare of green, and though he would have spoken more to her, she left disappearing in a gust of air. He felt as if he had seen his mother in her, and wondered if that was merely her nature, rather then truth. Though he still wondered – who had his mother been to these ancient gods and goddesses that they would entrust in him these "lost" gifts.

"**Nephthys warns that it will hurt for only a moment, but that the rewards reap the ache**." Horus murmured his breath rustling the hair along his ear, throughout the exchange between Seth and Nephthys, he had remained silent, now when he spoke, Harry took his words to heart and braced for pain. It washed over him, sending him weakened to his knees, the source of his pain seeming to be the stone sitting against his palm.

When Harry became aware again, Horus was kneeling beside him, and Harry could not help but muse with wary humor that he kept falling to his knees before the young god. As if sensing his thoughts, Horus let out a huff of breath that ruffled Harry's dark hair.

"**My gift, I fear, will cause you heart ache – as it did for me, as I inherited it from my father, Osiris, who carried it as ruler of the living. Before going to the Underworld to rule there, while I rule here through the living ruler of Egypt**." Horus told him, seeming to want to show off a little of his knowledge, in that way he reminded Harry fondly of Hermione. He though he knew what the third 'gift' would be from Horus, and braced himself for the swell of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him.

"**This is the Scepter- Spear of Osiris before it became the Lance of Horus; my gift to you is the Deathly Hallow you know as the Elder Wand. As you know, a wand chooses the magical child – so the wand chooses you, and it will protect and serve you well, for it is not the traitorous Death Stick you know it as. As it was my fathers, then mine – it is yours, use it will on the path we have set before you, Harry**." While Harry sat on the floor, stunned to see the golden scepter with the two horns protectively on either side of the star that rested nestled between them, the platform it sat upon was inscribed on both sides with hieroglyphs that ran down as long as his hand, from that point it arched downward engraved with lines then smoothing to a staff that ended with a flat surface, though oddly hollow in he center.

'_Dumbledore… Severus…Fred, Remus, Tonks…I failed…_' Harry shut his eyes tightly against the memory of that night; Horus touched his shoulder offering comfort, and hope – there still might be a way to defeat Voldemort if two gods and one goddess had just given him the Deathly Hallows as _gifts_.

"What is this path you've set before me?" Harry asked, knowing that this might be the last chance he had to ask.

"**To rewrite history and what will be, you know the Horcruxes as they are in your time, use that to your advantage. This place will always be your refuge, the place we are strongest and can aide you – even near death, come here, and you will be revived. We do this for you, and for our people – for they are being manipulated by beings that claim to be their gods and goddesses made flesh, and as the people believe we are they, we can not act against them as you can. You have our gifts; now gather the Crown of Isis, the Goblet of Thoth, and the Instrument of Hathor, collect these, and bring them here – and we may yet act to destroy those who have taken on our likeness. Among all those that you will see, seek only the High Priest as your ally**." Horus warned him, and then before Harry could speak - he changed his shape, becoming a falcon, he paused only long enough to tug fondly on a lock of Harry's hair before, with a rush of his wings, he flew out of the door to the temple.

In that moment, Harry felt very much alone.

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	2. A Step Through Desert Time

**When Sphinxes Speak **

_Abby Ebon_

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_Disclaimer_; I do not own the rights to "Harry Potter" or "The Mummy". Even the idea was gifted to me by_ L'autre Monde._

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_A Step Through Desert Time_

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Faced with that doorway, where before there had been nothing but sand made into something like stone, Harry felt keenly the weight of the gifts he had been given by the ancient gods and goddess. It had not escaped his notice that what he knew as the "Deathly Hallows" had indeed belonged to the ancient death gods and goddess. Even Horus, for all that he had been most unlike the others, was the son of the death god Osiris.

'_I can not just take these along with me_.' The Lance of Horus seemed to gleam in agreement within his hand, though the Shroud of Seth pressed about his shoulders, as if to cling to him. It gave him the chills, remembering the regard in those ancient eyes. It was Nephthys' gift, which he had felt fully the pain of; he could not think to leave behind**. **Perhaps it was because of how she had reminded him of his mother, with that flash of green among the depths of night blackness.

Harry did not dwell on that thought, for he did not like to think of what he might be if he was not, as Harmakhis-Khepri-Atum-Ra plainly believed, mortal. It was with some relief he parted with the Shroud of Seth, which he couldn't quite fold properly as a bit of it always seemed to rumple in an effort to stay in contract with his skin. It was simply improbable to keep the Shroud about him when he was in the desert, it would be far too hot. The fact that he felt chilled when it touched him, as if he were in the middle of a mountain winter, he chose not to dwell upon.

From the Lance of Horus, he felt something like acceptance and the ancient wisdom in patience. There was something of intelligence about the Lance, as if though it had chosen him, as Horus had claimed, it knew he was not quite ready to be chosen. He only did not like that it seemed to know him better then he knew himself.

Of the Ribbon of Nephthys, Harry did not even bother to remove. It had been painful to put on, and it would prove itself useful, the last thing Harry wanted was questions about his 'scar'. So of the three 'gifts', Harry kept only Nephthys' though as the golden sarcophagus closed he wondered if he had made the right choices. Then he set his mind only to the task which Horus had given him.

To findthe Crown of Isis, the Goblet of Thoth, and the Instrument of Hathor; he wondered at the wording, for it seemed familiar. The answer seemed as if was at the tip of his tongue before it was snatched away. Harry shook his head, the shaggy mess of black hair getting into his eyes and falling over his shoulders. He regretted now not asking Hermione for a trim, though it had seemed silly at the time.

He put his hand onto the rim of the door frame; it was the one without the gift of Nephthys to hide his scar. Though he did not worry over that, he wondered what the people would make of him. A pale skinned stranger strutting into their homeland with pale eyes, and the odd dress of a wizard.

He dared not remove his robes, for his clothes were a too large shirt and perhaps too baggy pants. He didn't know if he could transform his clothing without doing something silly like unraveling the stitches that kept them whole or giving the cloth more magic then it ought to be able to hold, that could result in random color changes, glowing, or keeping the cloth too tidy and clean. Being a "stitch witch" as Ron had called it, wasn't something taught in school because it ran in families and it was rare and hard to master.

Harry rather not risk his clothes turning a glowing purple in the middle of any sort of conversation. Harry felt a sick drop in his throat, as he might not be able to have any sort of _proper_ conversation. Hand gestures, and signals of agreement - or disagreement changed over time - and he was being misplaced in time some _two millennia_.

He had already taken two steps out the door, though he wondered a moment if he had taken them (for he surely didn't remember doing so) or if Harmakhis-Khepri-Atum-Ra itself had moved in such a way that he would be out of the temple. The doorway wavered like an illusion before his eyes; Harry didn't think it was entirely his imagination when Harmakhis seemed to wink at him.

'_Damned statue_.' Harry cursed inwardly, sure that Harmakhis would indeed get the message. Harry glanced around; surprisingly (for he hadn't thought he'd been inside Harnakhis for _this_ long) the sun was just beginning to rise. Then he remembered promptly his misstep bytwo millennia.

How he remembered was simple, though there was a good distance (at least a two hour hike in which anyone who cared to look would see him straggling along) between Harmakhis and the proper part of…whatever one called this place, be it "town" or "city"…Harry had the uncomfortable feeling he was playing the part of a modern "park sleeper".

Only this was not _only_ a protected park, so to speak, it was at least the equivalent of the Temple Square in Jerusalem. In other words he was very likely in deep…_crap_, though _he_ didn't see anyone, that didn't mean that he wasn't being watched.

It didn't seem Harmakhis was going to be letting him into the temple any time soon, either, if the mirage-like wavering of the place was any clue. Left with little choice, and feeling very much as if he had been set up and someone somewhere (likely a God – or Goddess) was laughing at his misfortune, Harry decided to risk dehydration and heat exhaustion to get to…wherever the people were in the distance.

'_Thank whatever-god-or-goddess for trees_.' Sometime later, that was Harry's only thought. Indeed, there were sparse trees, and Harry had crept along their shadows since the sun had risen to the point where Harry was panting for breath every fifth step. Even the fittest runner was not stupid enough to run in a desert in black robes with oversized clothing.

Harry was not any sort of runner, though he had his fair share of being chased (mind you, that had been by fat idiots who bullied him, or black robed and white skulled masks freaks who wanted to kill him, and bring about the end of a non magical people who outnumbered them some thousand to one) he was learning this did not mean a damn when he had set out for what he had thought to be a two hour hike. He had only covered half the distance he thought he would, and the sun was only getting higher and hotter.

He didn't want to know how long it would be till noon, and he didn't think it would cool off by then either. He thought he heard something then, like a laugh, and paused, glancing around the scattering of trees in his confusion. He wondered if he had heard some bird, or someone (the gods and goddesses of the ancient world were, indeed, to be held in suspect) was playing a trick upon him.

'_I must be hearing things_,' Harry decided after a moment, his mouth twisted pensively downward, '_I wonder how long it will be before I see things that aren't here…'_

Harry took a step, knowing he could do nothing while he was alone, and hoping only that someone who he would encounter would have pity on him enough to give him a place to rest and water. A shadow seemed to sprint between the trees ahead, for Harry saw it out of the corner of his eyes. He kept his head down, though his shoulders were tensed with wary alertness. He knew in that moment that this was real. He was being hunted.

Harry – though an ordinary person would not have seen anything obvious – was slowly gathering his power. He knew he had a lot of it to spare, though how long it would be that his body – tired and drained as it was – would deal well with his magic he did not know. He did not have time to figure it further.

A child slim and tawny skinned, with dark hair and darker eyes, stepped suddenly in front of him. Harry trembled, sweat stinging in his eyes. Magic and the power to wield it swiftly and destructively came easily to Harry. Less easy was letting it fade back into his core without flinging some of it about. Harry had been trained to do battle, to be a weapon with his magic his tool, as a soldier might be startled – so could he, though the effects were deadlier – Harry knew he could not bare to be a child murderer.

Harry let himself fall onto the ground, before the child's feet, his hand touched the warm sand, his fingers spread as he let the power find the natural path outward from where it came. His fingers shook with a spasm, as Harry let the power – his magic – go without a fight. His shoulders slumped and Nephthys' gift felt icy cold against his skin. He felt as if something of his magic had been torn from him, but the soil took the magic easily. The only hint the child had ever been in danger was a sudden burst of desert flowers that sprung from the earth surrounding wizard and child in the bounty of their life.

The child clapped, laughing in joy, as if it had been some great trick, never aware of his own danger. Harry watched with some relief as the child danced about in circles around him, finally settling down all smiles, touching Harry on the shoulder with one small hand to gain his attention.

Harry heard the boy child's words, pitched softly in awe, all at once musical and alien. Harry saw the child frown when Harry did not make any comment, again came the words, flowing and quick. Harry only shook his head, pointing to his throat and ear, frowning as if he could not understand sound, and so could not speak. The boy shrugged, grabbed firmly onto Harry's hand, and tugged with a smile and an insisted word, in a tone almost like command.

Harry knew the child wanted him to follow, and what other choice did he have but to do so? Weak as he was, he knew he wouldn't survive this place without the help this child could provide, by merely taking him to others. Harry shakily got to his feet, and if the child noticed his shakes, he paid no heed to them as somewhat like a trot and a skip, the child led him swiftly from shadow to shadow.

Harry lost track of time, for him there had only been one step after another, if only to keep pace with a child who seemed quicker then most could manage with twice his height. One moment their had been two great sand dunes raising up to either side of him, and in the next he felt power – magic or god like – tighten his skin and raise goose bumps along his neck for all that he was too hot to think he could be so chilled.

If he had blinked, he was sure he would have missed the moment when sand dunes changed to walls, and the path was revealed to lead to a gate guarded by two men dressed in somber black, though wearing less then Harry thought they ought to be in this heat.

The men glared suspiciously at Harry, though with quick words the child seemed to put them somewhat at ease – if only to appear so to the little one - though they were still obviously wary. Harry glanced behind himself, barely keeping his mouth from dropping open, the sand dunes had become walls too high to see anything but sky beyond.

Around him life in all its bustling and noisy glory was achingly familiar and welcome. Though he did not understand the words said by those who had something to sell or bargain for, tone and attitude reminded him of things he had not known to look for in this alien familiarity.

What happened next occurred with dizzying suddenness which took him days to sort out just what it was that had set it all off.

A woman's voice cried out, and the child jerked toward it as if stung, with rising tones of one setting out to scold or punish – or cry – the woman struggled through the crowd toward them. Once the people connected the woman with the child, they parted easily, some hovering to see this confrontation through, others ignoring the outburst and going about what they had set out to do. The child was shaken by the woman's presence and her open fear – he spoke haltingly then with swiftness, his hand tightened about Harry's own and he nodded toward Harry.

Who at that point, looking into the fiercely protective and afraid eyes – wished he were still struggling through the desert. The woman spoke her words sharp and directed toward Harry. He was, for once, glad he didn't understand – he felt awkward and frightened enough as it was – the woman seemed to realize her words weren't getting through. The boy muttered something almost too soft to catch, but catch it the woman did. She shouted out, gesturing to Harry, he did not need to understand words to know she had been badly startled and was taking it out on Harry.

Those black clad guards came in sight, lean and moving like predators, they flanked Harry who knew then and there he was helpless, he had no where he could go. His magic had been summoned and dispelled in a way that still left him reeling with the backlash, even if he could get to the temple with magic (which he didn't think he could) he wouldn't be awake to know where he had gotten to when he fled.

With the danger of bits and parts of himself being left behind between places a very real possibility, and no Healer in sight, he knew it was safer – whatever these people might do to him – to stick this out. More rapid words were exchanged between the woman and guards, when one of the men addressed him all he could do was to shrug, feeing utterly helpless. He couldn't understand. It was better to make that plain.

The woman jerked the child from his hand, holding him to her chest and flinching away from Harry when he moved toward them instinctively. His hand fell to his side, he felt very keenly like dirt.

What he was not prepared for was the sudden struck by one of the black clad guards that landed him on his back; it was painful to draw in air. It stung along his throat, the words of the child were pleading and mournful, the reply sharp as any words could be. Harry felt himself pulled to a place where he would feel no pain, and let himself reluctantly drift toward it, knowing he would rather painless darkness then this uselessness.

He was unaware that his movement into the city had been watched by others then those who guarded it. A shapely shadow moved between buildings, into the slim alleyway. For some reason the shadow paused, and glanced behind to Harry once more. Eyes caught on the hand encased with Nephthys' gift, and the odd plant-like barbed wire scar that encircled his wrist. Those same eyes flared silver before they turned away.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

"**Oh, child, if I could only spare you in your wakening**…" The words were soft however much they were burned into his mind. _That_, Harry knew in that moment, was the difference between what was mortal and immortal. Those that were immortal could never forget there own words, could never recall words with anything less or more then what they were in that moment they were spoken. The words were cut crisply into his memory, burned there, so if he looked back he would recall them with perfect clarity. They would never be forgotten; perhaps, he wondered then, not even in death.

"Who are you?" Harry's own voice was roughened and sore.

"**I am Hathor, wife of Horus; and you, child, are in more danger then you know**." Harry bothered to open his eyes then, turning to where he had heard the voice originate from. It was, as he had guessed, a female, though her appearance somewhat surprised him. She was plump, one hand holding her rounded chin, the other held some manner of instrument.

Framed with metal, and woven with smaller bits that looped around the frame, he had no doubt it would clang and clatter merrily if movement stirred it – he was glad it was still for the moment – his head ached horribly; her hair was a wave of black that seemed to have a will of its own and could not be tamed with its curls and stray bits drifting in a breeze that was not there. It reminded him of his own hair.

Power was about her, more then Harry even wanted to think of, she wore it like she wore her weight, with dignity and pride. Calm dark brown eyes regarded him with open kindness, though there was mischief there.

"I'm supposed to find your Instrument." Harry told her feeling detached, his head muddled and thoughts passing about which he could not catch. She smiled, reassuring and patient, not at all like the others who had come and gone too quickly. She would speak to him, and not only to pass on her message, whatever it was.

"**Yes, though **_**this**_** is not what you seek**." Hathor tilted the bits of metal, and though Harry had braced himself for unpleasant racket, he found himself surprised when it rang out pleasant and reassuring, his head even felt less muffled by thoughts and pain.

"It isn't?" Harry did not hide his confusion; his vulnerability was plain, though he did not mean it to be.

"**No, they did not make it clear to you what it is you seek, though they told you the names of the items, and a name is a sort of power among us – sometimes they can forget we are not all alike with our thoughts – I am younger, I remember what it was like**." Hathor paused, seeming to realize Harry had only grown more confused, she laughed and it was so alike the chiming of the metal instrument that it surprised Harry.

"**Forgive me, I take it in my mind to explain these things to you and I only seem to make it worse. Firstly, my Instrument will likely be the easiest of the items for you to find, it is among those black clad men who brought you to this…**_**place**_." Hathor sneered then, her lip curling, for the first time her expression was unpleasant and for a moment Harry felt a thrill of unreasonable fear. Her shadow seemed to swirl, and he glimpsed horns that sprouted from her skull. For the first time he realized that she, despite the present manners and kindness, was a goddess – just as fierce and deadly as the death gods.

Harry found himself stirring, sitting up to look elsewhere then at Hathor. He was in a cave; it was his first thought, though it was wrong, he was atop a mound of earth, above him was likely where they had dropped him in, a barred cage of metal. He had room to stand, if he could, for the ceiling was likely twice as high as he. At least it was cooler in this place then in the outside, though there wasn't much else to say about it.

"How could I get it from them?" Harry asked, feeling quite helpless as he was trapped in this place, and it seemed to him he would never be able to get free without alerting these people to his nature. If they had some measure of finding out his magical origins – and likely, after the child's pleased reaction of his magic, they did – they might be smart enough to put something to dampen, or keep him self and his magic in this place alone. It could be done, he knew, for not even wizards could overcome such things.

"**Fear not, the High Priest comes, he is on good terms with us. He will know you for what you are. As for my Instrument, it is not a danger to others in this time and place as much as the Crown of Isis or the Goblet of Thoth will be**." Hathor was suddenly beside him, and patted his thigh good naturedly. Harry remembered all too late what his thoughts had been racing about trying to tell him. He thought keenly of Hermione telling him of the Egyptian gods and goddesses, for even wizards and witches were not fool enough to ignore the ancient deities that slumbered. What slept awakened, and though they had magic that would be no protection from ignorance of what you faced.

Hathor had touched him, Harry breathed out shakily feeling something that was not wholly his own response stir lazily, and it startled him, for it was as dangerous as the goddess beside him and just as unclear in its intentions. Hathor was, among other things, a goddess of desire – of lust. She was not the playful sprite of Cupid who flung arrows on a whim, or Aphrodite, whom had existed only to be adored. Hathor was deadly in her own right, and perhaps more so then any of the others, for one did not suspect her because of her nature.

"Let me go." Harry begged, not surprised to hear the plea in his own voice.

"**Why?**" She was honestly curious, though her hand had not moved from his clothed thigh; all the same, the contact filled him with a strange desire for warm flesh and pleasure that had only been hinted at before.

"I do not want it." He felt himself drifting, as that strange heat seem to surface within his skin, burning him till he wanted to do anything to relieve the hunger of it. Hathor chuckled, though it was darker, huskier, then what it had been before. He felt almost embarrassed by her when she spoke, for it seemed to touch him in a way he thought should only have been in a bedroom before, not in this man made cave of dirt.

"**Often your kind does not know what they want**." Harry could believe that, but he felt it was wrong somehow, to want her to touch him as she had. He realized then that her hand had crawled upward, he gasped shakily when her finger brushed his clothed groin. His skin felt too hot, and he made a soft pleading noise he didn't think was his till it passed his lips. There was wicked delight in Hathor'd dark brown eyes.

"Please - not this – not _like_ this." Harry found himself begging, for though his body begged for this torture to continue – to perhaps become something more, another part of himself hated – loathed – every touch he received, and every noise he made in response. Harry didn't know what would happen if she continued, well – he sort of did – but he didn't know if he could face himself, helpless as he was, some part of him _wanted_ this as much as other parts despised the want and need he felt. It was this odd duality that told him this – as much as he liked it – was wrong. It made him feel used, teased, mocked.

"**I am sorry; it is for your own good. Be still, he comes**." Hathor gave no other warning as she pressed her lips against his own, dipping her tongue into his mouth so he could not make a sound. As much as he knew he would hate himself for it later, in that moment he felt freedom - alike joy- a fierce joy welled up within him, stirring his heart and magic. In that moment he knew such a joyous release of the welled up desire could empower him to dance carelessly until the end of his life, or to kill without conscious or guilt. It was, he knew then, as close as he would come to the duel nature of the wine god Dionysus of the Greeks. It was something he could never forget dwelled within him.

Hathor smiled, pleased, when she released him. She did not speak as she faded from sight, leaving him trembling in her wake. A voice, masculine and melodious drifted down to him. Harry looked upward, not very surprised to see that the metal bars had been lifted and a man, bald though pleasantly dark with a firm jaw and serious black eyes looked down upon him. Harry felt his breath caught, and wondered if this awakened desire was his own or aroused by Hathor.

He decided, somewhat bemusedly, that it did not matter. A ladder dropped from above, and Harry felt his nerves sting with alarm; he crawled only a small distance until his back was to the wall. Harry could not help but wonder if he was about to be killed, and swallowed his fear, his magic gathering itself slowly, achingly so. It almost hurt to summon it forth with his will and force his battered flesh to take in the magic.

The man, dressed as he was in fine dark robe and something like a loincloth and sandals, caught Harry's eyes with his own. Slowly, the man smiled, it softened his stern features, and though Harry knew him to be dangerous, he knew also that this man meant him no harm.

"_I did not think to meet you in such a way_." Those were not his own thoughts, but they belonged to the man who held his gaze, of that Harry was sure. He nodded, solemn and with dignity, to Harry's wondering gaze. The man came closer, within his personal space, though Harry made no move to get away. There had been power in his thoughts, something like magic, though it was tied closely to the sense of heavy _presence_ he felt among the gods and goddesses who had so far greeted him in this strange and ancient land.

"_I am High Priest, Imhotep. You are safe, green eyes. I will protect you…"_ Of this the man – Imhotep – was fiercely positive of. There was protection offered, and a place Harry could take beside Imhotep, one that no one would question. Imhotep gently reached to touch his hand, enclosed as it was with metal, ruined as it was by the thorn and barbed wire scar about his wrist with its clear and glowing green stones, Harry got the sense that this man saw it for what it was, and accepted it. Harry flinched slightly, for he was still over sensitive to touch after his encounter with Hathor. Something like possession tightened the slender fingers, smooth of any calluses, about his wrist. Harry felt his skin flush and knew by the quirk of Imhotep's the priest had seen it and knew it for what it was.

"Thank you." Harry murmured, still flushed, as he was pulled upward. He became aware then that had been the only word he had spoken not to a god or goddess of his ancient place. Imhotep, as if he understood the tone, if not the words themselves, only nodded, gesturing with a wave toward the wooden ladder, slightly unsteady and not only a little bit uneasy about the sturdiness of what he climbed, Harry was none the less relieved when he felt the skin warm his skin.

He saw a black clad guard beside the ladder, and feeling slightly sick, Harry waited for a reaction. The man studied him with pressed lips, then, finally, reached a hand out to help Harry get his footing. His companions chuckled when Harry understandably was visibly glad to be off the wooden ladder. Something like warmth settled within Harry, and he thought in that moment that he could get used to this place, that it was not so strange.

Imhotep spoke then, a sharp word not directed toward Harry, but to the men. They shuffled about uneasily, like scolded children, their eyes not meeting the priests. Imhotep curled his arm about Harry's weight, leading him to elsewhere, the black clad men following obediently after. Harry fell in step with Imhotep, and was not concerned with where they were going, for the safety he felt in that moment was worth not knowing a language, and being a stranger in a land that was not of his own time.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

_Note_; I don't like Hathor very much; I'm not sure why this is. Manipulations, _touching my Harry_, or if it's a mutual sort of dislike caused by the simple fact she _knew_ I wanted Horus to do more to Harry then a mere brotherly snuggle….huh, that _might_ be it…-_snarls_- still that _witch_ kissed my Harry! ….Moving on before I hurt something…

In a funny-odd sort of way, there were a few times in this where I couldn't help but think of Harry as the _Harry_ _Dresden_ (I just finished up Tim Butcher's "_White Night_", alright? ) while writing this; we're just lucky that they both have the first name, no?

Also I have uncovered a longing to meld Mercedes Lackey's _Valdemar_ with _Harry Potter_. Partly my own fault, for playing about in that world once more, then going on to write this chapter; if only to _start_ to have a finish for the sequel of "_Battle Song_", called "_One Good Turn_"; which, hey, I do have a vague sort of ending in mind for…

God help me, Harry somehow being among the throng of Haven (or anywhere, really, I'm not _that_ picky) makes the oddest kind of sense, if not very rational; though when have I ever been reasonable about what I write? I'm an odd duck, that I know, but I do hope even **I** have my limits. Ah, _screw_ that – I'm fairly certain that if faced with something to do with writing that _someone_ said couldn't be done – if it was a _challenge_; I'd gnaw on it till I had _something_ feasible. Please don't test that theory; I've more then enough on my plate already.

Just as oddly –if in a normal sort of sense for me - somehow, "_Ripple_", as I've come to somewhat bemusedly call this story, has stirred up "_Shades of Panic_". Landing me with a lap full of a lusty Anubis, a squirming Harry, a glowering Ardeth, and something very like an end of this written out movie epic (if I finish it, there will be _five_ movies entwined); if I squint I can see the point where Harry "retires" to the Immortal Planes, Death at his side, though I'm fairly certain a new Immortal might be added to the throng. Only natural as I decided to go ahead and commit myself to tying in to the Scorpion King movie(s), and mixing it with Mummy 3 gingerly.

I can only hope that that something - somewhere in my head - giggling in a dark corner, and muttering to itself, isn't what's left of my sanity.


End file.
